


“you can have half.”

by clickingkeyboards



Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [11]
Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Detectives, M/M, Modern AU, Murder Mystery, proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-29 16:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21413335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: Despite George’s refusal to get out of bed, Alexander is determined to treat the two of them to a day out after a case that dragged on.George has a surprise, literally, up his sleeve.Modern AUWritten for the eleventh prompt in the '100 ways to say "I love you"' prompt list by p0ck3tf0x on Tumblr.
Relationships: Alexander Arcady/George Mukherjee
Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533164
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	“you can have half.”

For somebody who so relentlessly enjoys being awake at ridiculous hours of the night, George Mukherjee despises waking up at a reasonable hour of the morning.

This wouldn’t be such an issue if he were not a veritable octopus while asleep. Whenever I try to move out of the bed, he sleepily grabs me and tugs me back into his arms.

I am tired of turning up distressed to crime scenes because he simply will not  _ get up _ , and yet he somehow manages to look immaculate. Meanwhile, I look like I’ve been dragged through a bush backwards no matter how much I mess with my appearance and—

“You look dashing, my love. Don’t you dare say otherwise,” George mumbles, voice thick with sleep. “What’re we doing today? Y’ said you’ve something planned.”

“We’re celebrating,” I tell him, leaning over to kiss his jaw. “We were working on that case for months and on the news non-stop for a week. Daisy and Hazel are in  _ Paris _ , for Heaven’s sake. We deserve a romantic day off.”

He shifts as if to get out of bed and I silently congratulate myself before realising that he isn’t getting out of bed.

“Can we celebrate in half an hour, Alex?” he asks, rolling over to rest his head on my chest. “I’m  _ tired _ .”

“I have absolutely no sympathy for you, George,” I snap, though there is no malice in it as I run my hand through his hair. “Who was it that decided to stay up until three writing up case notes? That’s right:  _ you _ .”

“I said that it was a problem future me could deal with,” he grumbles, as usual beginning to impart his anger onto a past version of himself, who couldn’t defend himself because he knew that he would be berating himself in the future and did not care one bit.

With a sigh, I throw the covers off and he hisses. “ _ Alexander! _ ”

“Complaining?”

“ _ Yes _ .”

Chuckling at his indignation, I throw open our closet and say, “Drastic times call for drastic measures… I’m choosing my outfit for today without input from you.”

“ _ Please _ don’t do that! I’m up, I’m up!”

“You  _ prick _ !” I laugh, turning around and catching him in a kiss, one hand on his hip and the other cupping his jaw. “My clothing style is not so bad, my love.”

“No, you’re right,” he says, and I feel him melt under my touch and at the nickname. “It’s a travesty.”

* * *

“Oh! Alex,  _ look _ at this!”

George darts away from where I am studying a series of letters to gawk at a spitfire suspended from the ceiling.

When he moves away from me, I turn to look at what he’s doing and I can’t help the fondness that swallows me. With an open-mouthed and childish look of wonder, he stares up with enormous eyes at the spitfire, unaware of anything and everything around him.

For a moment, George does not look like the hardened detective of twenty-six that he is, the same detective who picked his way around crudely-disembodied bodies and examined every dissected organ in great detail, the same detective who stayed up until three in the morning rewriting the notes of our thirty-fourth murder case, the same detective who answered questions about the particulars of this serial assaulter on the evening news with a uniform yet suave charm. Instead, he is George Mukherjee from when the two of us were eleven, when we grabbed each other’s coats on school trips and watched each other obsess over spitfire planes and architecture. He is, all at once, the same boy who would bite down on his lip to quell the tears when people called him nasty words, the same boy who would sarcastically call out any prejudice he saw from anybody, the same boy who lit a fire in my heart I did not quite understand.

“George, my love,” I call out, snapping him from his trance.

“ _ Alex _ .”

I nod at where he’s standing. “You might want to step back, you know.”

“Right.”

When we’re in the gift shop, about to leave, I find a small model spitfire and pay for it at the tills, presenting it to George when we step outside. He is  _ thrilled  _ by it.

“I love it,” he says softly, closing warm hands around the cold metal. “Where are we going next?”

* * *

We take afternoon tea (how dreadfully British) in the Ritz. George is still bubbling from our visit to the museum, jumping to and fro between topics with an air that enraptures those around us to listen.

“Furthermore, the production of spitfires in the war was—” He pauses. “You’re staring at my cake.”

“It looks  _ good _ ,” I protest. 

“You can have half.” 

George does not share cake. Ever. It means more to me than it probably should.

* * *

It’s sunset. We’ve wasted away the day with museum visits, afternoon tea, long romantic walks through the park, West End shows, and an evening meal at the restaurant that Hazel first pitched to me her idea of how she was to propose to Daisy.

We’re in the Sky Garden, a beautiful viewing platform that cherishes the unique memory of our first offices murder case.

“I like this song,” I say, leaning my head on George’s shoulder.

“Sentimental,” he scolds, taking my hand and setting the other on my shoulder. “Alexander Arcady, may I have this dance?”

It’s a strangely graceful dance for how awkward and gangly I am, all perfect steps and whispered endearments. We are getting looks, I am sure. I can’t find it in myself to care all that much.

It is a perfect end to the evening. I feel as if I am falling, floating, flying. 

George spins me out from where I was tucked in his arms, but does not draw me back in. 

In one hasty movement, he releases my hand when I was spun away from him, and drops to one knee. 

“Alexander Arcady,” he begins, “We have never been conventional. We met as as an atheist and a Hindu in a decidedly Christian school, and bonded over our obsessive need to protect the world from criminals. We have weathered twenty countries and four continents together over fifteen years of knowing each other and ten years of being together, and you are still my partner-in-crime somehow. I have never been one for romance, nor do I appreciate sweeping gestures. You, however, do. I fell for how sweeping and grand and excitable you are, your charisma and your wit and your ability to love, and I fall for it again every day. I fell in love with you without knowing what it means, and when you know what those feelings mean, you chase them and fall for them even harder. We’ve always sworn to be by each other’s sides forever but recently I’ve noticed something missing. So, Alex, my love…” He draws in a sharp breath, panicked, hasty. “Will you marry me?”

I feel  _ something  _ welling up in throat and I nod furiously as sobs start forcing themselves from my mouth in a way that almost hurts.

“I’ll take that as a yes, my love.”

Yet again, I nod furiously, burying my face in the shoulder of the now-standing George.

“Yes.”

“Good. I may have had to kill you if you said no.”

Even though there are stares and cheers from all around, I hardly notice. George draws me in and kisses me gently, one hand in my hair, and I feel like I am flying.


End file.
